The Poopsie Collective

The Only Thing to Fear is Fear Itself: Keeping Your Phobias a Secret

Written by ERICA

I’m not the type of person to scare easily. At least, not when faced with things that logic deems scary. Events, experiences, threats and challenges that some people might be terrified of just don’t seem to frighten me. I’m comfortable with heights (we live on the 26th floor). I’m not freaked out by germs. I was never, not even for second, nervous about childbirth.  I’m not scared of blood, needles, flying or trying new foods. I may have no appetite for cow tongue or foie gras, but thanks to AJ’s encouragement over the years I’d say I’m pretty open to trying most cuisines. I don’t sit up at night fearing natural disasters or worrying about terrorism, and if AJ didn’t remind me that I’m a mother with a primary responsibility to be there (as in, physically there, alive and well) for my son, I’d happily go skydiving 5 minutes ago. Those things just don’t scare me.

Know what scares me? BIRDS. And SHARKS. And, generally speaking, anything living under water other than mermaids and the Bubble Guppies.

I’ll start with birds… they are DISGUSTING. They are dirty, ugly, disease-carrying, creepy flying objects that can lurk above you unknowingly and swoop down at any given moment to peck your eyes out. They have claws. They travel in packs. They are TERRIFYING. My fear started when I watched Hitchcock’s The Birds at way too young an age. I will literally walk an entire block out of my way to avoid a mass of pigeons and if there is a black crow anywhere in my horizon I freak. 

Here we are, all smiles at a place called PARROT JUNGLE. As in, a place where you pay to be surrounded by parrots. Amazing for kids, for moms with bird phobias, not so much. But, as it goes, I sucked it up for my kid.

Next up, sharks. I mean, this one is obvious…they eat people. They can open their death-trap mouths and chomp your leg off as if it were a boneless BBQ chicken wing. And instead of attacking from above, they swim below you, watching you flap around in the water and when they get a whiff of something tasty (blood, pee, laughter) they leap out of the water and BAM. You’re dead. This phobia shares a similar path to my bird history: I saw Jaws too young and now I basically have a panic attack if I’m in a body of water where I can’t see below me (including a fresh water lake, which I am aware makes absolutely no sense). And as for the rest of the underwater wildlife, I was stung by a jellyfish as a kid, and fish are slimy. The end.

I guess it’s not entirely surprising that I have strange fears in my adult life; apparently as a kid I had weird irrational fears too, such as ceiling fans, sand and lizards. I’d walk into restaurants as a child ducking for dear life if a fan was on, and when I was maybe 1 year old my mom plopped me on a towel in the middle of nothing but sand because she knew I couldn’t/wouldn’t go anywhere. Note to self: not a good idea unless your child is in the shade or basted in zinc.

Anyway, point being, I’ve always had strange things that scared me. Not normal things like public speaking, the dark, heights, illness or death. I’m scared of weird, illogical things that aren’t actually a direct threat in any way, but nonetheless, they FREAK ME OUT.

To date I’ve learned to deal with my fears and basically just avoid them at all costs. Except for the random times when I cave to AJ’s pressure and face my fears. Like when we were snorkeling at the Great Barrier Reef and even though there were sharks and invisible poisonous jellyfish that could actually give you a heart attack with one sting, I jumped (or was dragged kicking and screaming) into the water. Though that’s not the norm; I typically just go about my business in a bird and shark-free world, and it’s all well and good, but now I’m faced with a dilemma. How the hell do I raise a child and not pass on my own fears to him?

I don’t want Owen to be scared of birds. And so far he doesn’t seem to be, as he demonstrated when he happily threw his leftover eggs into a pigeon’s mouth at brunch. My instinct was to scream and run away when said pigeon flapped his herpes-carrying wings against my leg. But clearly I couldn’t sprint away from my child while he was giggling in his high chair. So I cringed internally, wiped my leg off immediately, took a deep breath, died a little inside, and moved on.

And then there’s the ocean. We live on the beach, literally, steps from the Atlantic. I know, poor me. It’s gorgeous and amazing and also stressful. I want Owen to love the ocean. I just don’t want to have to take him IN the ocean. But whenever I find myself staring at the waves, I take a breath, squeeze his chubby thighs tight and walk in to my knees. MAYBE my thighs, but only when the water is crystal clear. 

Post-swimming session. All alive and with all of our limbs intact. Sharks - 0, Nahmads - 3.

I’m trying REALLY hard to make sure my outward behavior doesn’t show how terrified I am in front of Owen. Because I know he’s at an age where he mimics everything AJ and I do, and where his mommy (he’s a real momma’s boy right now) is his rock. When he gets a tummy ache, mommy makes it better. When he’s scared, mommy is there to snuggle him. When he falls on his face and gets a bloody nose/mouth/lip/head, mommy is there to wipe it off and make him smile. So how could that same super-mommy also start to cry when a seagull approaches a 10-foot radius of her beach towel?

And so, every day I try to act a little bit more mature about my own phobias, in hopes that my maturity now will pay off big-time as Owen grows up and develops his own set of fears. It’s not always easy to sit among a flock of pigeons all fighting for Owen’s discarded lunch, but since when is motherhood ever easy? 

Playground Politics

Written by ERICA

I believe in something called social etiquette. I believe in manners. I truly feel that one of the more important lessons you can teach your kids (or be taught yourself) is to treat others the way you want to be treated. Be polite. Be courteous. Be kind. Blah blah blah. Now, this is not to say that I’ve never treated others badly. Please, we’ve all been through middle school. And truth be told I did get kicked out of tennis camp for pranking a 10-year-old girl and framing another kid for the crime. (It was a REALLY clever prank, which I won’t divulge here because if I do then I’m pretty sure no one will ever listen to my parenting advice or read my posts again.) 

But despite some of my less-than-sophisticated decisions in the past (I suppose throwing red, white and blue dyed tampons into a crowd of kids on July 4th is considered poor form?) and any bad behavior I exhibit from time to time, I try to always treat people (adults and their kids) with respect, and I expect the same in return.

That said, here’s a pickle. How the hell are you supposed to act respectful and mature when a bratty 7-year old sporting a ‘tude and zero parental supervision crosses you in the playground? 

A few weeks ago we were hanging around a park with my sister-in-law Val and my niece Parker, who’s slightly older than Owen. Owen had recently mastered the whole running around thing, so a fenced-in playground where he could roam free without fear of stumbling into oncoming traffic was a dream (for both of us). He was flopping around like a drunken frat boy during Greek Week and I could sit comfortably on the bench catching up with Val in peace. That is, until Bratty-pants McGee walked in. 

Owen happily chilling on some swings…not prepared for the playground drama to come. 

I’m sure you’ve all met a kid like this… struts her stuff like her sh*t don’t stink and thinks she owns the joint. You know what I mean. And yes, she was approximately 7 years old, as if that gives her a right to behave that way. Anyway, fine, she was clearly a snotty little biyatch, but that’s OK. Really her attitude is none of my business. Until it is.  

Owen and Parker were playing nicely, climbing on the jungle gym, or in Owen’s case attempting to climb and instead falling on his face into mulch. It was cute and they were bothering no one. Then, up walks Little Miss Bitchy to tell me that Owen was in her space and I quote “He’s annoying me, he’s in my way and you need to move him.” He was doing nothing but looking clueless and giggling next to the jungle gym, which apparently was “her house and he needed to move because he wasn’t invited into her house.” Ok, fine. She’s playing house. I get it. But guess what? I don’t give a crap about your game of house. F*ck off little lady. 

Which is clearly not what I said. Remember, I’m respectful. Social etiquette and all that. So I smiled and looked for her mother, who was nowhere to be found. All I saw was her nanny and a man who seemed questionably homeless, but turns out was just her grandpa. And PS, both were doing absolutely nothing to manage this kid. So then I tried to negotiate. “Ok sweetheart, you don’t have to play with him, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t get in your way if you just let him play here with me.” Seemed like a fair deal, but nope, not good enough for her. She was a tough cookie. “NO! I DON’T LIKE HIM. GET HIM AWAY.” 

This went on for a few minutes and it took every bit of strength I had not to throw her off the swings. Literally, I wanted to punch her face in. I don’t care that she’s 7. And actually, what I really wanted was to beat down her “caretakers” (I use the term loosely) for being so freakin’ neglectful. Like WAKE UP NANNY. WHAT’S UP GRANDPA? Why don’t you help or something?!

Thank goodness for my sis-in-law, who’s more experienced at this crap than I. She gave the whole “listen kid, this is a big playground. Everyone is invited to play here, this isn’t your house. This playground was here before you got here, and it will be here when you leave. So why don’t you stick to your game over there and we’ll play over here” talk. All I wanted to do was yell a WHOOP WHOOP and a TAKE THAT SLUT in the kid’s face, but I didn’t. I held it in, we moved locations slightly, and 10 minutes later it was time to leave. Fights were avoided and I managed to leave almost as mature and polite as I walked in.

And on my way home I realized, I think that was officially my first lesson in playground politics. It was a lesson I was not really prepared to learn so soon, and one I think failed. Because even though I held myself together, I’m pretty sure a deep desire to smack someone else’s child is not really a good thing.

So as innocent as a playground may look, apparently this is where a kid’s bratty side comes out and his mother’s patience is put to the test.